


A Better Way To Die (To Live)

by estelraca, TalesInInkAndStars



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Demigods, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, bahorel is a dramatic fool, feuilly is confused, jehan is a dramatic poet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24023506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalesInInkAndStars/pseuds/TalesInInkAndStars
Summary: “To die for love... I think that's what all of us want, in the end. When we are done living for love, at least.”Bahorel knew he was in trouble the moment Feuilly had walked through the door. He is charming and deoendable and utterly gorgeous, but he seems more drawn to the Triumvite, and Enjolras in particular and thats... that's fine; Bahorel is fine.Until he goes home one night after a brawl with a black eye and an aching in his ribs, and starts coughing up flower petals.He'd heard about Hanahaki disease, a condition that plagued unrequited lovers with flowers in their lungs... he never thought he'd get it.But now he has to confess his love to someone he knows doesn't love him back, and that thought really might kill him.
Relationships: Bahorel & Jean Prouvaire, Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	A Better Way To Die (To Live)

**Author's Note:**

> Izzy - It was brilliant to be able to work on something for one of my favourite fandoms again and working with Estel to create something that we can both love and be proud of has been wonderful. I hope everyone likes what we've done! 
> 
> Estel - It's been really nice getting to create something for fandom during these weird, difficult times. Hope people enjoy this little story we cam up with and the accompanying playlist!

Jehan came to Paris looking for love, and that was exactly what he found.

It wasn't quite the kind of love his parents would have understood, though they were, on the whole, kind enough to let him try his hand at whatever tasks he felt he should. They didn't understand his poetry or his writings, but they didn't denounce them as heretical or worthless either; they didn't understand the political leanings that his literary friends had, but they also didn't brush aside Jehan's new and growing interest in the way the world worked. He was luckier than many in that regard.

Just as he was luckier than many in those he had managed to befriend in his brief time in Paris.

Bahorel was... well, what kind of words were there to describe someone like Bahorel? Loud. Brash. Eager. Intelligent. Alive, Jehan always ended up coming back to. Bahorel was so very alive, while also understanding the appeal and fascination of death, and Jehan couldn't even dream of a better friend.

How many people were there who would have happily agreed to come drink spiced wine out of skull goblets on the roof on the eve of the full moon, after all? There were a handful in their friend's group who would have been interested, Jehan supposed. It was the type of tableau that appealed to those who shared their aesthetic sensibility.

But who else could lounge like Bahorel does? Who else could look every inch the brawler and the werewolf and the scholar at the same time?

“I do believe you're staring.” Bahorel took a long drought from his goblet before grinning at Jehan, turning the goblet so that the skull's empty eyes also faced Jehan. “At which one of us?”

“At you.” Jehan heaved a sigh. “Just thinking I am lucky to have found so good a friend. I think I am a bit in love with you, Bahorel.”

“I know.” Bahorel reached out to refill Jehan's goblet. “Just as I'm a bit in love with you, my darling poet.”

They had dated, briefly and passionately and perhaps foolishly, shortly after Jehan met Bahorel. It had been a lovely, dramatic affair, and Jehan had been able to write a great deal of poetry based off the ill-fated adventure. After perhaps two weeks they had mutually decided that they were better off as friends than as lovers, and both had been decidedly pleased with the outcome of that conversation.

“It's a strange thing, love.” Jehan allowed his head to roll back so that he was flush against the roof, his eyes fixed on the blackness above him. Though Paris was darker at night than it was during the day, it wasn't truly dark. If Jehan were back home, he would be able to see so many more stars than he could right now. But perhaps that just made the stars that still shone through all the more precious.

“A very strange thing, lovely and melancholy and terrible and great all at once.” Bahorel shifted, perhaps mimicking Jehan's position. Since there was no crash of something or someone tumbling to the street, Jehan figured he was safe enough not looking over.

“The great mystery we're all trying to figure out. Well, that and death. But I suppose they could be considered two parts of the same question. Death wouldn't matter nearly so much if not for love, after all.” Jehan turned his head, taking in Bahorel's expression in profile. The red of Bahorel's waistcoat could be black in this lighting, but his pretty grey eyes still showed despite the shadows. Jehan found his tongue continuing on without asking him permission first. “I was talking to Tatsumo-san about it, you know. The connection between love and death.”

“Tatsumo-san?” Bahorel turned to him, propping himself up on one elbow. “He's the gentleman from Japan, isn't he? Don't see too many of them about, given the travel restrictions their king has in place.”

“Emperor, I think?” Jehan frowned. He would have to ask more questions about the mundane facts of Japan. “And yes, that's where he's from. He's quite the talented poet, though we're having to learn both each other's languages and each other's poem forms. But the conversation we had today was about a condition called hanahaki disease.”

“Hanahaki?” Bahorel's tongue worked its way carefully over the foreign word. “What's that?”

“An illness of love.” Jehan sat up, excitement at being able to explain something new and fascinating to Bahorel driving him vertical. If they weren't on the roof he might try to pace, but as much as he enjoyed the thrill of being up high, he didn't really want to fall. “Apparently sometimes, if one person loves another and that love isn't returned, they begin coughing up flowers. It starts with a petal or two, but the longer the love goes unrequited, the worse it gets. Eventually, if nothing else is done and the love remains unrequited--or if the love is requited but the afflicted doesn’t know, as happened in one particularly sad tale of separated loves he told me--then the sufferer dies of their love, choking on flowers.”

“Huh.” Bahorel sat up, too, taking a drink from his skull—a skull they had nicknamed Berne earlier in the day. “There are worse ways to die.”

“Certainly.” Jehan took another drink himself, feeling the world seem to float around him. “I would say dying for love is what most of us are planning, yes, when we talk of revolution?”

“You could say that.” Bahorel grinned, though it faded to a more contemplative expression after a moment. “It is an interesting conundrum, though—to confess love if your confession means the one you love must either return your affection or watch you die. And what would it mean to return your affection? Would what you and I have work?”

“According to Tatsumo, no—the love must be romantic in nature to cause the affliction, and the returned love must be romantic in nature.”

“And if the one you love doesn't return your favors, then you either die or... what?” Bahorel took another deep drought from his cup.

“I don't know the details, but Tatsumo said the plants could be removed surgically, but at risk of damaging the heart of the afflicted. They would no longer love the object of their passion. They may no longer feel love at all.”

Bahorel shuddered. “Give me death instead.”

“Very much agreed.” Jehan tilted his head back, feeling the starlight on his face. “To die for love... I think that's what all of us want, in the end. When we are done living for love, at least.”

“And living for love can take a very, very long time.” Bahorel moved over so that he was closer to Jehan, his leg pressing against Jehan's. “I don't know if I can countenance the existence of this illness, though. Surely if it were true everyone between the ages of fourteen and twenty-two would suffer from it at one point or another.”

“Not everyone. You know Madeleine, for all that she writes the most glorious poems, has no desire to do more than kiss someone, and would rather be murdered than taken to someone's bed.” Jehan leaned back against his friend's shoulder. “But I had the same general hesitance about the possibility, and Tatsumo assured me he's seen it happen. He said that it's rare, and that he suspects most people who suffer from it bear the sacred in their blood.”

“A pretty turn of phrase, but what did he mean by it?” Bahorel's breaths were slow and even, and Jehan could picture the two of them sleeping up here, found out only by the light of dawn.

Assuming they didn't tumble down the slope of the roof in their sleep, at least. “I think he meant the children of the gods? I'm still figuring out exactly how the kami—that's the gods in Japan, I think—function, but I think it's their children with mortals who seem to suffer from the illness.”

“What, like the demigods of Greece and Rome?” Bahorel huffed out a sound that wasn't quite a sigh and wasn't quite a laugh. “Perhaps we'll have to search for any evidence of this illness among them.”

“You know I, for one, am always game for searching the archives of our ancestors for more information on the world.” Jehan closed his eyes, letting the wind—which smells more pleasant than not today, at least—caress his face. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, and then I'll take you to the Amis again. I think you're getting along splendidly with them.” Bahorel's voice was a low murmur that didn't break the spell of darkness and drink and deep satisfaction Jehan had wrapped himself in.

“I am. Oh, but I am.” It was one of the more precious gifts Bahorel had given to Jehan, bringing him in contact with the group of young rebels. “Tomorrow will be a good day, then.”

“Today has been a good day.” Bahorel's arm shifts, and Jehan opened his eyes to see Bahorel's mug lifted in a toast to the stars.  
Jehan lifted his own in turn, the two of them saluting those tiny pinpricks of light in the blue-black sky.

It had been a good day and a good night, and Jehan was certain there would be many, many more for them before their time in the world ran out.

***

The Cafe Musain was tucked neatly into the Parisian backstreet, like it was hiding itself from those that did not already know its riches. The first time Bahorel had seen the place, with its lopsided roof and faded gold sign, something - some feeling deep within his chest - told him that there was more than cheap ale and spirits within those walls.

That first day he’d lingered at the entrance for longer than was perhaps necessary when Jehan had nudged him good naturedly through the door. Today, however, he and Jehan breezed through its doors and out of the quickly fading twilight of the busy streets.

They’d spent the day gathered around the countless books and tomes in Jehan’s rooms, pouring over ancient texts of myths and legends and endless reels of poetry and plays. He and Jehan both had been humming with inspiration and awe the more they’d read. As the two of them navigated the various rooms of the Musain, Bahorel noted with endearment that the poet was muttering lines under his breath, already deep in composition.

Most of the Amis were already gathered in the back room, talking and laughing amongst themselves whilst they waited for the meeting to begin. Grantaire looked up from where he was no doubt winning at a game of Commerce against Joly and Lesgles and reeled back, clutching at his chest.

“We really are done for! The resident Romantics here before our illustrious leader? It’s unheard of!” There was a mirth twinkling in his eyes; he enjoyed taunting Enjolras almost as much as he enjoyed hard liquor.

“Enjolras isn’t here yet?” Bahorel pulled one of the chairs over to the trios’ table, dropping down into it and taking Joly’s turn for him, easily winning the round. Joly beamed at him from behind his spectacles.

“Thank you, dear heart,” Joly said gleefully. “And no. Enjolras does seem to be running late.”

As if on cue there was the sound of quick footsteps on the creaking floors and Enjolras appeared in the doorway, arms laden with papers and hair streaming behind him like liquid gold. Truly, Bahorel was still perplexed that there wasn’t a drop of Apollo’s blood flowing through his veins.

“Dearest Apollo, we have been waiting with baited breath for your arrival!” Grantaire’s voice rang out, pulling a huff from Enjolras and gentle laughter from the other Amis.

Bahorel opened his mouth to join in the teasing when he caught sight of the figure standing behind Enjolras. He was tiny, with a sort of fragileness about him that made Bahorel’s breath catch in his throat. He was positively fairy like, with delicate narrow hips, and absolutely covered in tiny light brown freckles.

The meeting started soon after but Bahorel remained distracted by the angel, who stayed close to Enjolras’ side. Feuilly was a smoldering fire of passion and Bahorel couldn’t help but lean forward in his seat whenever he opened his mouth. There was a quiet sort of confidence about him, different from Enjolras’ vivid revolutionary resolve or Combeferre’s studious nature. Feuilly was enthusiastic and intelligent and he spoke so eloquently and unapologetically...

Bahorel thought he might be a little in love.

Hours spent in good company with good wine always made for a wonderful evening and tonight was no different. Once the official meeting was over many of the Amis stayed behind to sit and drink and gamble. Only Enjolras and Marius chose to retire early, and Bahorel felt secretly glad as their leader bowed politely to the room and made his way out into the night. Maybe now Feuilly would seek out someone else to talk to. He did not seem shy, more wary in his new company. Bahorel understood the apprehension, politics being what it was these days, and for the first time, he was unsure of how to proceed. He liked to think he was sociable - he loved learning and discovering new things about the world, and in his years he’d found nothing more interesting than a stranger willing to spin tales long into the night.

But Feuilly made him nervous in a way he’d never quite experienced before. Jehan noticed his longing looks, sending him coy glances over the rim of his glass.  
That was how they wound up discussing Hanahaki once more: two rounds in and more than a little loose lipped.

“A disease where one in unrequited love coughs up flowers?” Grantaire murmured, swigging wine from an old mottled bottle that Bahorel was fairly certain he’d brought from his rooms.

“Indeed, and unless you have them cut out along with your capacity to feel that love or if it is returned, the condition will kill you.”  
Bahorel watched Feuilly from where he sat on Jehan’s other side. He looked like he was listening but his expression was more of confusion than actual interest. It was endlessly endearing and Bahorel felt the sudden need to clutch at his heart beneath his waistcoat.

“I will never die, I will be killed. And I will allow nothing to kill me but flowers,” Grantaire vowed, lifting his bottle in a toast.

Everyone laughed at that, Jehan echoing the call with rosy cheeks.

***

As the days grew longer, Paris half way out of the dark of winter, meetings became outings, became drinking sessions, and Bahorel found himself absorbing every little tidbit of information he could about the newest Ami. Apart from being passionate beyond belief, Feuilly was something of an artist himself, and often sat working on intricately folded fans for one of his many many enterprises.

He’d gifted one to Bahorel once: blood red with black lace and interlocked with swirling gold spirals that spilled out onto the handle. It was hand painted and Bahorel held it like it was something precious, daring to hope that his affections were at least a little reciprocated.  
Feuilly gave Jehan a fan the next week, just as exquisitely decorated, and Bahorel tried his hardest to be nothing but delighted for his friend as he showed it off. It was silly to assume anything; it wasn’t like the two of them really talked. Feuilly was much more likely to be found with the triumvirate, exchanging ideas and battle plans with Enjolras, than at Bahorel’s table where talk regularly turned from politics to philosophy and literature.

It was on one such evening, with Feuilly and Enjolras bent over several maps of Paris, pointing vigorously, heads bent close together, and Bahorel, Jehan and Grantaire on the opposite side of the Musain already three rounds in with no intention of stopping, that a fight broke out.

***

The winter had made tensions run higher than they already had been, and given that France had been in a state of revolt for the last fifty years that was saying something. The Amis were no strangers to opposition and Bahorel had honestly lost count of how many times he’d had to dive into brawls in defense of Bossuet, Courfeyrac and, on occasion, Jehan, who fought just as dirty as any criminal when his honour was called into question. It happened often enough that when Joly’s drunken cry of ‘down with the monarchy, long live the Revolution!’ echoed off the walls Bahorel was already tense in his seat.

Sure enough, a group of men approached the table a few moments later, mischief and anger sparking in their eyes as they sneered at Joly. Bahorel didn’t know who threw the first punch but soon enough the air was thick with the cries and shouts of men as the other patrons ducked quickly for the exit. The rest of the Amis were quick to react, joining the fray with a yell. Bahorel ducked and swiped at anything that came too close, keeping one eye on those friends that he knew would rather stay out of the fight.

He could have sworn there were only four men but it felt like an army was surrounding him. He punched a sour looking man with a scraggly beard in the nose, grunting with satisfaction as he felt said nose break beneath his fist. The man reeled back, blood streaming down his face. He ran for Bahorel again and Bahorel swung, this time catching the man in the gut. The breath wheezed out of him and he twirled and fell forward to the floor. Bahorel watched him with a smile and immediately hit the floor when someone collided with him from behind.

It was Feuilly, eyes bright and worried as he looked down from where he had landed on Bahorel’s back. Feuilly bit his lip and rolled him over, hands tracing gently over his face. He was now all but straddling his chest, and Bahorel prayed the adrenaline from the fight hid his flush.

“Are you alright?” Feuilly asked, hands continuing to trace gently over Bahorel’s jaw, checking him over for injuries. Bahorel forgot how to breath. It was like there was something stuck in his throat. His face did hurt, he was certain his lip was split, and one of his eyes felt suspiciously swollen, but Feuilly’s hands felt like magic on his skin: calloused and strong but so delicate, and Bahorel had to restrain himself from pressing a kiss to Feuilly’s palm.

“I’m fine; how are you faring?” Despite the sting, Bahorel was, in all honesty, thoroughly enjoying himself. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a good brawl and the thought of Feuilly, face twisted in anger as his fist flew at a bigot, had him growing hard in his breeches. He quickly helped Feuilly to his feet.

“I’m not really one for fighting,” Feuilly said with a shrug, ducking a swipe from an assailant and dealing a truly staggering right hook before turning back to Bahorel with a cocky grin. “But these bastards deserve it.”

Bahorel’s heart was in his throat. All he could manage was a tight grin in return.

“Well, you seem to have things covered here so I’ll leave you to it.” Feuilly left, ducking and weaving his way across the room like a seasoned boxer towards Eponine, who had a poor soul in an impressive looking headlock. Bahorel watched him go dumbly, getting a punch to the temple for his trouble.

That night Bahorel arrived home with two black eyes and an ache in his ribs that hummed and stung with every move. As he climbed carefully into bed he suddenly cupped his hands to his mouth and threw up a flower petal. A perfect pink rose petal.

_Admiration_ , Bahorel thought faintly. _Well fuck._

***

Bahorel waited to see if the flower-petal was a one-time event or something else. After all, he’d taken a few hits to the head that night. Maybe he hadn’t actually vomited up the petal--a petal that he cleaned and left sitting on the stand next to his bed, a reminder of what may-or-may-not have happened.

The Amis gathered the next day, exclaiming over each other’s collection of bruises, discussing the best moments of the brawl the day before. Feuilly came to see Bahorel’s black eye, but then he was immediately drawn back into the triumverate’s circle, focusing on more pressing matters.

A few brawls may change a few minds, but they wouldn’t cause the systemic cascades of reform that were needed.

Bahorel’s chest felt full and tight throughout the meeting, his trousers occasionally following suit when Feuilly said or did something particularly bracing. Or intelligent. Or clever. Or funny. Or, really, when Feuilly opened his mouth at all.

When Bahorel excused himself, he coughed another pink rose petal into his hand, followed by a pale purple one and a white one. Enchantment, and… well, there are multiple ways to read the white one in this context. Purity, innocence… a wish for unity, given that it came with others.

“Fantastic. I have a whole rose garden growing inside me.” Bahorel cleared his throat, but the tightness in his chest had eased for the moment. He pocketed the trio of flower petals, intending to add them to the first one.

When he brought Jehan to his apartment two nights later, the collection had doubled in size again.

***

Jehan looked down at the flower petals, his brow creasing as he considered them. “These are roses… these are tulip… is that a hydrangea petal?” Jehan looked up at Bahorel, and his mouth quivered into a fond smile. “Well, this is a clever way of saying you’ve found someone new to have feelings for! I’ve never seen someone just take the petals before.”

“I didn’t. Take them.” Bahorel rubbed at his chest, something he’d been doing more and more over the last few days. Jehan wondered if his friend was coming down with a chest cold, though his concern was diverted by Bahorel’s next words. “Though it is a clever idea, you’re right. But these came from within me. I… I think I have the illness we were talking about.”

For a moment Jehan could feel that his face was a blank, neutral mask, his mind trying to process the words. Then his eyes widened as realization dawned. “Hanahaki? You think you have hanahaki?”

Bahorel nodded. “Unless you know of another reason to start coughing up petals when you think of someone you’d like to be with.”

“But that means--well, that means so many things! It means that it’s real, and if Tatsumo’s suppositions are correct then it means you have divine blood, and--” Jehan stopped abruptly, the rush of emotions that Bahorel brought fading into one overriding sense of concern. “It means you’re in danger, doesn’t it?”

Bahorel drew in a breath and puffed out his cheeks. “We discussed that it was one of the better ways to die, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but--who is it?” Jehan reached out to touch one of the petals. Not him, surely; he and Bahorel have long since figured out their relationship, and Jehan was fairly certain both of them loved the patterns they’d fallen into--and the times they broke out of them. Someone else that had come into their lives recently; someone that would have drawn Bahorel’s attention. Someone quick of tongue and foot, kind, likely looking daintier than their personality called for… well, there was really only one option. “It’s Feuilly, isn’t it?”

Bahorel gave a slow, tense nod. “Every time I think of him, it’s… it’s like he’s a sun, and I’m being drawn into his orbit. Everything about him is perfect, don’t you think?”

He was not perfect for Jehan. Jehan preferred his men a bit sturdier, their personalities leaning a bit more to the poetic, but oh, yes, he could see why Bahorel would love their newest rebel ally. A grin slowly took hold of Jehan’s face, and he reached out to clasp Bahorel’s hand. “You haven’t distracted me from questions about whether or not you’re a demigod, you know. But I will allow that the more pressing problem is getting Feuilly to notice and return your affections.”

“Do I have a right to do that?” Bahorel’s brows furrowed, his right hand rising to press at his waistcoat--at the lung beneath, and Jehan tried not to stare, wondering what it must feel like to have literal thorns of love digging into one’s body. “To ask him to love me just because I love him so dearly? I don’t even know if he likes men.”

Jehan considered. “I think we can suppose he at least doesn’t dislike the idea of men who like men.”

Bahorel shook his head. “Enjolras is the one who brought him in. If Enjolras has been moved by earthly beauty once in his life, then I will eat not just my hat but my entire wardrobe.”

“Just because Enjolras isn’t one to notice physical beauty doesn’t mean he would bring in someone who would be a danger to his friends. Joly and Bossuet make no secret of their relationship both with each other and with Musichetta; you and I are plain in our admiration for all bodies. I do not think Feuilly would be repulsed at the idea, at least.”

“Which doesn’t mean he would like it or be comfortable with being pursued.” Bahorel had begun to pace, continuing to rub his hand in a slow circle above his heart. “What if I drive him away from the Amis? He and Enjolras are doing good work, bringing an alliance between the Amis and the workers, and--”

Jehan took Bahorel’s hand in his. “My friend. My dear, sweet, fierce friend. You are worrying about something that hasn’t happened. All we need to do is pursue him as you would someone else. If he doesn’t seem receptive to your advances, then, well, we shall search for other answers. But why not pursue him? He wouldn’t be the first of our friends, either political or artistic or both, that you’ve tried to woo.”

“That…” A smile worked its slow way across Bahorel’s face. “That is a very good point you make. I knew I loved you for a reason. So, will you help me? Will you assist me in searching for this most dangerous of quarries--a kind, good man’s heart?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Jehan gave his friend’s hand a squeeze before dropping it, his eyes going to the table and the flower petals scattered there.

It was incredible to see them. It was miraculous, their mere existence. It spoke to the power and passion of love, and to the creativity of the human soul.

It made him uneasy to see them sitting there, beautiful and out of place, but Jehan tried to shove that feeling away and revel in this strange, unique opportunity they had been given.

***

Feuilly had no idea what was going on with Bahorel and Jehan.

It wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. He was fairly certain he was enjoying the attention that he was getting from the two? It was just… a bit different from what the rest of the Amis were.

But that was because Bahorel and Jehan were a bit different from the rest of the Amis. Jehan was a poet, and Bahorel was at the very least a patron of the arts, if such can be said to encompass someone who defends the changing landscape of modern literature, poetry, and public entertainment with an eloquent tongue and flying fists in equal measure.

Bahorel wasn’t like most people Feuilly was familiar with. He was ostensibly studying law, but it didn’t take more than ten minutes of talking to the man in an environment where he was comfortable being completely open to learn that he was really the child his parents chose to send into Paris as a supporter of their political leanings. Though Bahorel’s family had enough money to support him, they weren’t gentry in any sense of the word, and Bahorel was proud of the fact.

Bahorel was proud of pretty much everything that made up Bahorel, and he seemed intent on sharing all of that with Feuilly.

Starting with a cup carved into the back of a skull that Bahorel had apparently liberated from the catacombs of Paris.

“We couldn’t find a name--there are a few marked graves but many more unmarked.” Bahorel turned the skull so that it was facing Feuilly. “We--that is, Jehan and I--have been down on many occasions, and I thought you would like this one. We decided to call him Larue, but certainly feel free to give him a name of your own.” Bahorel set a bottle of wine down on the table between them. “Would you be interested in sharing a drink with me?”

“A drink… from skulls?” Feuilly felt as though he was floundering through a dream. Not a nightmare, per se. Bahorel was looking at him with too much hope, and he was safely ensconced in the back room of the Musain with his new friends. But still… it couldn’t be normal to offer your friends skull cups, right?

“If you’d prefer not, we certainly don’t have to. But there’s a certain meditation on mortality, on the changing nature of man, on what we owe those who have come before and what we can learn from them, that Jehan and I and our compatriots find comes with the ceremony.” Bahorel flushed, a beautiful blush of blood running up from his neck to touch his ears. He almost matched his waistcoat. “You don’t have to, of course. I should have asked--should have talked to you more about it.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll… I’ll come have a drink with you and Jehan tomorrow night?”

Bahorel seemed to deflate strangely, but he smiled and nodded. “Tomorrow night at my place?”

“Just give me an address.”

The time spent drinking with Bahorel and Jehan was surprisingly pleasant. The two men could recite poetry that was haunting and aching and stuck in the heart, and they did so with increasing verve as the evening passed on. Feuilly found himself enjoying the experience more than he thought he would, though he had to turn in long before he thought the two poets were ready to do so. Though he could afford some longer nights, his work and the contacts he had through that work required him to keep an earlier schedule than many of the other Amis.

The days marched on. Feuilly couldn’t get the strange evening--or how Bahorel had looked, limned by candlelight, eyes glittering with intelligence and joy as he proclaimed on one subject or another--out of his head. He found himself bringing it up at the next meeting of the Amis, when the others were there before Bahorel and Jehan.

“Has anyone else… gotten a skull mug from Bahorel?” The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, as though he were sharing some secret. Which was utterly ridiculous, because the others were here with him when Bahorel gave him the gift, but still… Larue was given to Feuilly.

“Bahorel gave me a whole corpse once, when I needed it for my medical studies.” Joly leaned against Bossuet as he spoke, Bossuet’s fingers massaging at Joly’s sore thigh. Though Joly usually walks well, sometimes quick changes in temperature could make his cane more of a necessity than a fashion statement. “The man’s incredibly good at finding things that you need.”

“He and Jehan brought me a mummified corpse from the catacombs once.” Combeferre chuckled. “They had heard I was interested in studying how different environments reacted with flesh and the necrotization process. It was certainly one of the stranger gifts I’ve received, but not unwelcome.”

Enjolras, the last person Feuilly had expected to speak up about receiving bits of corpses, smiled and said, “Jehan gave me a bit of cloth that supposedly had both Saint-Just and Robespierre’s blood on it. He said I was connected enough with our spiritual ancestors that I should have a bit of earthly connection to them as well.”

“Oh.” Feuilly felt a strange ache in his chest, as though something had been hollowed out of him. He should have expected this. The Amis were a close-knit group, and to assume that he--the newest member--would be given gifts that the others hadn’t been… well, what did Feuilly expect? That Bahorel--the man who could lay someone low with a blow while tearing their arguments apart with equal zeal--would be interested in Feuilly?

Feuilly barely understood the circles that Bahorel moved in. Though the workers Feuilly was helping to bring together and connect to the Amis were good people, intelligent people, carrying bits of story from all the scattered corners of the world, they didn’t include mad poets and playwrights who could recite and reject the entire French historical canon from memory.

Surely if Bahorel were going to be interested in someone, he would be interested in Jehan.

Which was a theory Feuilly could put to the test right now, he realized. “Are Bahorel and Jehan… involved in any way?”

Courfeyrac laughed, coming over to clap Feuilly on the shoulder. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

“They told me they were, once.” Enjolras’ brows drew together in a look of faint confusion. “But I don’t think it lasted? Romantically?”

Taking pity on his friend, Courfeyrac took over the narrative. “They were an item briefly when Jehan first joined, I think. But then they broke it off, but then they’ve continued to spend most of their free time together, but they’re also deeply involved in the same artistic movements so…”

Combeferre picked up where Courfeyrac faltered. “None of us know. I’m not sure they know, and I’m half convinced they like it that way.”

“Right.” Feuilly smiled. “That sounds accurate to what I’ve seen.”

The topic of conversation drifted on, and Feuilly allowed it to. He settled comfortably at Enjolras’ side, discussing the workers’ concerns and what types of actions they could reasonably take now and which would need to wait for certain conditions. They were deep in a conversation of exactly what conditions would make the status quo untenable and how best to prepare for those to happen when Bahorel and Jehan finally came in. Feuilly smiled at them, but he tried to keep his heart from lurching at the sight of Bahorel’s blood-red lips and mess of dark hair.

Bahorel already had a life that was filled with more adventure and romance than Feuilly could understand. Feuilly would accept what forays into that life Bahorel allowed him, and enjoy them thoroughly without expecting anything more.

***

Matters were not going the way Jehan expected.

Not that matters were going badly. Feuilly seemed to be enjoying spending time with them, though he was more often than not confused about even the most basic aspects of their endeavors. He got so caught up on why they would want to go down into the catacombs and if it was dangerous that they almost missed the perfect moment to descend, when the moon shone bright through the door behind them and the lantern light was the only thing piercing the darkness. When they brought up the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, the version that Feuilly was familiar with had only the vaguest relation to the stories Jehan and Bahorel have read.

The fact that both Jehan and Bahorel were there was also a problem. Jehan hadn’t meant to be there, just like he hadn’t meant to be included in the night of drinking and revelry that followed Bahorel giving Feuilly the cup. Feuilly just seemed to keep inviting Jehan along, and Jehan didn’t want to offend or to leave Feuilly feeling unsettled with just Bahorel.

Still, the entire point was to give Bahorel a chance to woo Feuilly. So they decided to craft a serenade, and Bahorel went out to perform it alone.

Bahorel returned alone not an hour after he left. He shrugged, expression sheepish. “He enjoyed it, but requested I play it for him again in the morning, when his neighbors aren’t attempting to sleep. I doubt the lyrics will have the same effect in the light of day, but I will try.”

Then Bahorel proceeded to cough up a trio of daisy petals--innocence, purity, new beginnings. A man either so unaware that he is being wooed that he couldn’t see it, or so gentle in his rebuffs that it was hard to see them as such.

Bahorel set the petals reverently on the nightstand with the others.

There were so many now. It seemed that every day Bahorel was coughing up more and more. When he watched Feuilly talk to Enjolras during their meetings, he coughed a blue cornflower petal into his hand. (Friendship and foreign nations, and Jehan’s heart breaks at the utter rightness of the blooms.) When he returned from visiting Feuilly at work, he had a whole red tulip to add to the shrine. (True love, perfect love, the kind that could only come from seeing someone completely in their element and loving every moment of it.)

Bahorel started to lose weight.

He started to speak less, his breath coming hard even when they hadn’t been doing much.

He watched Feuilly, and Feuilly watched him, and Jehan watched them both with a growing sense of dread.

“Perhaps…” Jehan hesitated. “Perhaps we can try looking for something else to present him with. I’ve heard rumors of a death-mask for Robespierre, as well as another round of rumors about a shroud that may have the imprint of Jesus--”

“He wouldn’t want either.” Bahorel sighed, and his breath smelled like roses and blood. “Look at him, Jehan. Look at the way he and Enjolras are working together, dividing up tasks. If Feuilly wants any man, he wants Enjolras, and I would say our illustrious leader may actually be interested.”

Jehan startled, as much at the idea of Enjolras being interested in anyone as at the way Bahorel’s tone seemed so fondly gentle and despairing at the same time. “Enjolras isn’t interested in anyone in that way, much to dear R’s dismay.”

“I think he may be with Feuilly. See how close they sit? See the way he touches Feuilly’s arm? And Feuilly smiles, and he looks so sweet as he does…”

Jehan studied the scene at the main table, but he saw nothing more between Enjolras and Feuilly than he saw between Enjolras and Combeferre or Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Which was a great deal of affection, and a great deal of trust, and an awful lot of enthusiasm, and love that was born of shared cause and ideals, but love such as what Bahorel meant?

“Surely you can’t mean that you’re giving up.” Jehan placed a hand on Bahorel’s arm, feeling the lean muscles there. “We have to do something.”

“I am doing something. I’m watching an angel at work.” Bahorel took a drink of his wine, grimacing as though it burned his throat. “I’m being enchanted by a fae, and it’s everything we ever dreamed it could be.”

“You’re getting worse, is what you’re doing. If we don’t do something… if we don’t find a way…” Jehan stumbled over the words. “Bahorel, you could die. You will die.”

“It’s not how I envisioned myself dying. I always thought it would be on the barricades, or in a similar position.” Bahorel choked, and Jehan reached up to pat him on the back until the coughing fit passed. “But I suppose this just means I can be more reckless in pursuing those.”

“No, it doesn’t. If you and Feuilly aren’t meant to be, we aren’t just letting you die.” Jehan surveyed the room and their friends. Joly and Combeferre were sitting right there, and if Bahorel wasn’t willing to bring them in, well… sometimes friends were for helping you make the decisions you didn’t even realize you were neglecting.

***

Joly and Combeferre spent about ten minutes sorting through the pile of flower petals and whole flowers on the nightstand, exclaiming over this bit of flower or that.

Bahorel sat scowling on the bed, occasionally taking a deep, rough breath that pained Jehan to hear. He had spent about two minutes listing all the reasons Jehan shouldn’t have brought the doctors here, starting and ending with the growing political unrest that meant the illness of a single revolutionary meant little. Jehan had weathered the storm of excuses and then said, calmly and without anger, that he was going to do anything he could to save Bahorel.

Now he just had to hope that their friends could come up with something Jehan hadn’t been able to.

“This is just…” Joly trailed his fingers over one of the red rose petals. “I’ve heard a bit about this disease, I think. It’s rare, but it’s one of the ones my contacts who were telling me about acupuncture had discussed. I didn’t believe them. To think that something like this could really happen, and here… you should have told us what was happening earlier.”

Bahorel refrained from saying that he hadn’t necessarily intended to tell them at all, which Jehan appreciated.

Combeferre was busy flipping through notes in a book that he pulled from his bag. “Yes, yes--it does explain it! Well, isn’t that fascinating. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, but I found a scroll that I do believe describes this exact phenomenon and a surgical procedure for fixing it. In ancient Greek, but I was fascinated enough by the drawings that I was compelled to note it anyway. Flowers with their roots embedded in the larger bronchi--who could have imagined!”

“And you say it’s a condition caused by love?” Joly’s thumb balanced over one of the roses, not quite impaling himself on a thorn. “A cruel twist of fate, that.”

“Love and divine blood, supposedly.” Jehan glanced at Bahorel. “We never did dig into that.”

“There’s not much to dig into.” Bahorel grinned, though it turned to a grimace of pain a moment later and he turned to cough a white petal drenched in blood into his palm. “I don’t know exactly what the story is, but my mother always said my father was a demigod. It took me longer than it should have to realize she didn’t mean the man who raised and fathered the rest of my siblings. It really hasn’t seemed relevant.”

“Bahorel…” Combeferre’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly how old are you? You’ve talked about fighting in battles that you should have been too young to fight in…”

“I… may be a bit older than most people assume, but not by much. Just by ten years or so.” Bahorel grinned again, and it was his usual wolfish grin, even if there is blood at the left corner of his mouth. “Is aging well a crime now?”

“No.” Joly removed his hand from the flower. “But it apparently does set one up for unexpected biological complications. Since what we know of this illness comes from a Japanese man, I will see what information I can get from my Asian friends about potential treatments. I’ll also see what might be done with magnets--it may help, and it certainly shouldn’t hurt.”

Combeferre nodded. “A good start. I’ll see if I can… borrow the scroll with the information we’ll need should those methods not work. It shouldn’t take me more than a day to acquire it, perhaps two to three days to translate what I need to. Most of it was anatomical drawings showing the surgical procedure.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Bahorel stood. “I am willing to try anything provided it doesn’t interfere with my ability to love or be loved, by the object of my affection or anyone else. Love is who I am, gentlemen. I will not sacrifice it for a few more years, not when--if it pains you all so much to watch me wither--there are grander ways I can spend my last weeks.”

“Of course it pains us to watch you suffer.” Joly reached out to set a comforting hand on Bahorel’s shoulder. “You are our dear friend.”

“And as much as I can appreciate a good martyr,” Combeferre removed his glasses, cleaning them despite the fact that they didn’t appear to need it. “I do not think there is any risky business to undertake right now that would be worth your life. Give us time to find a potential treatment.”

Jehan moved to put a hand on Bahorel’s shoulder.

Bahorel’s hand rose to cover Jehan’s fingers.

Finally Bahorel heaved another sigh, one that turned into a coughing fit that led to one perfect, bloody red rose with a three-inch stem falling from his lips. When he straightened, Bahorel nodded. “Let us see what can be done to remedy this situation to all our satisfaction.”

***

Changing the alignment of Bahorel’s bed didn’t help his breathing at all.

Attempting acupuncture resulted in a great deal of cursing and jumping but no improvement in the tenor of Bahorel’s breaths.

A recommended concoction of medicinal herbs resulted in Bahorel seeing things that weren’t there for about four hours, and Jehan made sure to ask Joly to get the names of the herbs for the future. It did not, however, improve Bahorel’s coughing fits.

Jehan tried a half-dozen ceremonies and petitions to various deities. Nothing seemed to help.

By the time another week had crawled by, they were left with only Combeferre’s research as their final alternative.

Combeferre took his time explaining everything he’d found. There were diagrams. They were very carefully labeled. Jehan couldn’t make out what any of the labels meant, though he was fairly certain they were all in French, which was his first of many languages.

When Combeferre was done they all sat in silence for a few seconds.

“So.” Bahorel’s voice was always gravelly and rough now. “Let me summarize. There are three possible outcomes from this surgery. One is that I could die.”

“That’s always possible.” Combeferre spoke gently, and Jehan knew that this was the voice he used with his actual patients. “I don’t think it’s likely, but given the severity of what we’re treating, it’s only honest to say it’s possible.”

Bahorel nodded. “If I don’t die, then removing the plants will remove my affection for him.”

Bahorel still hadn’t told the others who he was, and neither Joly or Combeferre had asked.

Joly rubbed at his sore leg. “It will remove your romantic attraction, and everything connected to that.”

“Which would be all my affection. I don’t think I could separate out any one thing.” Bahorel coughed, and rose petals in a smattering of colors, all spotted with blood, trailed from his lips. “And that’s the two good options. The bad options is the one where I survive but I lose my ability to feel affection at all--”

“Which is extremely unlikely--”

“Any likelihood is too high.” Bahorel’s fist slammed into his own thigh. “I am everything that I feel. The three of you know me. You know that. If I lose my ability to feel, to experience, to be--it will no longer be me. I will be dead, and some stranger--some dangerous stranger, for to not feel love, to not feel affection, how could he be anything but dangerous--will be walking through the world with my face and my knowledge. Would you risk that?”

Jehan closed his eyes, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces for two very different reasons. Bahorel was right. It was not something that they could risk, not just because it would be far too cruel to Bahorel but because it would be far too dangerous. A Bahorel without affection for all the people he knows--all the rebels he knows…

Joly levered himself up to his feet, pacing frantically from one side of the room to the other. “We can’t just let you die. This is progressing far too quickly. Tell us who it is that you have this affection for. Let us talk to the gentleman. If he were to know--”

“To know that he must love me or I will die? What kind of love is that?” Bahorel stood, moving more slowly than Jehan had ever seen--moving with more pain, his breaths short and shallow. “I will not hold someone hostage. I thank you for your time. I love each of you dearly, and I will miss you immensely. But this is my choice, and I choose not to follow either path.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then Jehan stood, as well. “Give me time. Let me talk to him. Let me talk to the others involved. I will find us a way forward.”

He couldn’t not find a way forward. If he didn’t find them a way forward, then he lost his best friend, the man who welcomed him to Paris and showed him its wonders; the man who had helped him to be an artist and an activist and an ally to those in need. If there was any way to prevent it, then Jehan would take it, and the most reasonable first step was talking to Feuilly.

He planned to talk to Feuilly before the Amis’ meeting the next night.

He didn’t plan on there being a riot the next afternoon, and he spent the entire time wondering where Bahorel was and whether he was enjoying the fight like he usually would, hoping that his friend won’t do anything ridiculous and brave and resulting in martyrdom.

***

There was something in the air the morning before the riot, Bahorel could taste it on his tongue - some weird mixture of tense hostility and righteous anger as he looked out of his window at the Parisian skyline. His entire body ached; every breath felt like agony and petals were beginning to cover the floor of his rooms like a blood stained canopy. He watched the sun rise over the buildings and sighed. It was a perfect day to die, if he did say so himself. Jehan would surely be heartbroken if he knew how often Bahorel thought about death these past few weeks, though he would definitely appreciate the aesthetic nature.

He wondered what Feuilly was doing. Was he standing at his own windows, watching the same sun rise? Bahorel liked the sound of that; if they couldn’t watch it together at least he could think about waking up with Feuilly in his arms, watching Paris rise from its slumber.

He raised calloused fingers to his lips, long used to the feeling of foliage forcing its way up his throat. He pulled an amaranthus bloom from his throat, propping it neatly against the window sill with a quiet huff of scratchy laughter. Hopeless indeed.

***

The next meeting of the Amis had promised to be an important one. There were rumours of a slew of uprisings around the city - groups of students like them who had decided now was the time to take decisive action. The air was restless and Bahorel found himself arriving at the Musain that afternoon, far too early for the meeting and itching for something he couldn’t quite place.

Jehan was already there, writing furiously in the corner, but he looked up when Bahorel called out to him. There were the beginnings of dark circles around the poet's heavenly blue eyes and Bahorel felt a twinge of sadness at his friend’s distress. He would miss Jehan terribly; he couldn’t have asked for a greater friend or confidant. Bahorel thought how he could best honour his friend before he died and decided that he might as well delve into poetry, his friend's greatest love. It would be the perfect farewell.

A few more of the Amis were there too, namely Combeferre, Feuilly, Enjolras and, surprisingly, Grantaire. They were all gathered on the far side of the room, heads bent together as they whispered furiously. There was something resembling a map spread out on the table in front of them, though from where he stood by the door, Bahorel couldn’t be certain. Not feeling quite ready for political discussion or willing to face Feuilly without at least half an hour of building up to it, Bahorel made his way towards Jehan.

A cry went up before he was even halfway across the room: a group of men had planted themselves right in front of his friends. Every bad feeling that had plagued him all day swelled up within him; this could only mean trouble.

Bahorel took a couple of tentative steps toward the group, muscles tensing for the fight he knew was coming.

“It’s people like you that killed our children--all you care about is making a name for yourselves!”

“Your son is dead because he fought for what he believed in,” Enjolras’ voice was calm and even and Bahorel marvelled at his poise. “He sounds like he was a noble and brave young man; I would hate for him to be disappointed that you believed his sacrifice to be in vain.” An angry cry went up through the newcomers and Bahorel darted forward as their leader, a tall man with a nasty gash down one side of his face, raised a fist to Enjolras. Bahorel caught the fist, feeling the bones creak in his grip as he squeezed.

“Now that’s no way to behave in a respectable establishment,” he drawled, watching the man’s face turn purple with rage. The itch beneath Bahorel’s skin started to recede. This was exactly what he needed. “If you wish to fight with my friend I’m afraid you’re out of luck since you will have to get through me first and if I’m being completely honest?” He looked the man up and down. “I don’t think that’s a fight you can win.”

The whole bar seemed to hold its breath for a moment. Bahorel could see Feuilly out of the corner of his eye, staring at him with something akin to awe on his face.

Bahorel felt the tell-tale scrape at the back of his throat, catching the rhododendron before it hit the floor - beware.

_Well_ , he thought, _that bodes well_.

Six pairs of rough hands reached for him at once and Bahorel twisted and contorted himself to escape their grasp. He managed to smash his head into the nose of one of the men behind him, spinning on his heel and shoving to get himself some space to think. The amis were scattered - someone had managed to hit Enjolras regardless and he and Combeferre were off to one side as the doctor looked over his bleeding nose.

Bahorel heard the sound of a bottle smashing and Grantaire stepped in front of the two of them with his faithful green wine bottle broken in half and held before him like a sword. There was something wild in his eyes that Bahorel understood all too well. With Enjolras reeling they were the two most competent fighters, spending hours a week boxing one another - they knew they stood the best chance in all of this.

“Come on then!” Bahorel snarled, walking backwards towards the exit. If he could draw the men outside it would give the other patrons a chance to get away without being harmed. Hopefully. “If you can’t be civil then I’ll just have to teach you all some manners.”

There was a snarl and someone collided with him, tackling him through the doorway and out into the street. He hit the dirt, disorientated but grinning. He bucked his hips, dislodging his attacker and climbing to his feet.

When it came to a true fight, there was no honour, no code. Bahorel bit and scratched and clawed, fighting dirtier than he had in years. The Musain’s front windows were smashed, revealing the carnage within. It was a miracle they’d never been barred with the amount of brawls they were responsible for, directly or otherwise.

But for all his attitude, Bahorel was floundering; fighting dirty may get the job done but the sheer amount of energy he was using was wreaking havoc on his body. His chest felt like it was on fire, breath coming in harsh pants that ripped through him like hot wax dripping down his throat.

As the attacks kept coming, it became harder and harder for Bahorel to keep himself out of harm's way. An arm broke under his grip and he flung the man away, but there was instantly another reaching for him. At some point someone pulled out a knife, wicked and gleaming in the evening light and Bahorel cursed as it sliced into his side, drawing blood. The pain sharpened him, replacing the growing fatigue with adrenaline fueled numbness. He was being careless, he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He hadn’t felt this in charge of his own destiny since this whole hanahaki debacle started. Jehan’s words echoed in his mind from all those weeks ago - “To die for love... I think that's what all of us want, in the end. When we are done living for love, at least.”

Bahorel would rather die with the taste of flowers and blood in his mouth, protecting those he loved. At least then he would choose how it happened; he could choose who got hurt. The steel knife sunk into his hand and manic laughter bubbled up inside him. He pushed into the pain, relishing in it, letting it intertwine with the scraping in his lungs. His attacker reared back and Bahorel let his eyes slide closed, waiting.

The blow never landed. A hand grabbed at the wrist of his good hand and Bahorel’s eyes snapped open to see Feuilly before him, blonde curls matted with blood and eyes wild with terror. The man with the knife was lying on the ground unconscious and Feuilly was breathing heavily. He dragged Bahorel across the courtyard, running hand in hand along the streets. He could feel Feuilly’s pulse racing under the soft skin of his wrist and he wondered, dimly, what could be wrong.

Feuilly dragged him into a bystreet, hidden in the shadows, and they both collapsed against the bricks. Bahorel was shaking; excess adrenaline coursing through his body. He pushed his fingers into the rough bricks, willing himself to calm down. Feuilly lent across from him, their legs tangled together in between them.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded harshly, voice sounding strained in the quiet space between them.

“Why did I save you, you mean?” He was angry, staring at Bahorel with the same righteous fury he usually saved for debates at meetings. “What help would it be to anyone if you were to die, Bahorel!”

“Because at least then I could choose how I die! Dying for the sake of the people I love and the city that I love-”

“What about what _I_ love?”

Bahorel was shocked into silence by those words, and Feuilly gazed back at him, eyes hard. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Somewhere in the distance the police were clearly responding to the disturbance.

“When I first arrived at the Musain with Enjolras I saw you sitting at the back of the room and it felt as if my heart would beat right out of my chest, and when you gave me Larue I went around and asked everyone whether they’d been given one too because I was so excited that you’d given me something.”

Bahorel opened his mouth to say something but, for his amazing ability to wax poetic about anything under the sun, no words escaped his lips.

“Bahorel, you’re brash and quick witted and the way you speak about art and philosophy makes me dizzy with affection… I did not dare to hope that you would like someone like me. I am too staid, too calm, too confused by all these literary and artistic movements that clearly mean the world to you.”

Something shifted in Bahorel’s chest; Feuilly liked him. The constricting vinces in his chest started to unravel and it was all he could do to not start laughing from the dizzying relief. Feuilly must have mistaken his silence for disgust for he started to rise, to leave, and Bahorel quickly shot forward to grasp his wrist.  
“Feuilly, words cannot describe how much I admire you. From the moment I saw you I was captivated by how gorgeous you are, how passionate and educated… you put up with Jehan and I’s ranting and raving with the patience of a saint-”

“I was not putting up with it,” Feuilly interjected with the tiniest of smiles. “Just a little perplexed.”

Bahorel let his own smile spread, soft and endearing. He must look like a lovesick fool but he didn’t care.

“I would be a fool to not love you.” Feuilly just stared at him, a pretty blush filling his cheeks.

Bahorel followed the rosey flush down his neck and along his collar bones… and remembered the blood. “Does it hurt?” He asked softly.

Feuilly startled slightly, reaching a hand to run through his matted hair. “I am fine… I… I wasn’t sure, given everything… I thought perhaps you loved Jehan, but you truly do mean it. You love me. And I… I adore you, Bahorel, even as I struggle to understand and encompass all that you are.”

The words were a siren song, wonderful and impossible at once, but they were true. Bahorel coughed, leaning forward with the force of it, and watched a perfect, spotless ambrosia flower fall into his open palm.

Feuilly stared at the flower. “What in heaven's name is that?”

“Reciprocated love…” Bahorel took his first clear breath in a long time, feeling the sweetness of the air filling his lungs, and smiled a full beaming smile. “Now? Now it’s nothing important, my love.”

Feuilly opened his mouth to retort but Bahorel silenced him with a kiss, sweet and perfect.

***

Jehan sat alone on his roof, skull mug and wine in hand.

Bahorel was with Feuilly, as he had been for most of the week. Jehan didn’t mind. Bahorel and Feuilly make a good pair. Feuilly acted as a bellows for Bahorel’s already-fierce fire, making Bahorel seem somehow even more vibrant than his usual self; Bahorel was able to broaden and deepen Feuilly’s already-considerable horizons. The two made a wondrous sight together, talking, singing, debating, and laughing more than Jehan remembered ever seeing either do before.

Jehan suspected when the two new lovers had a month or two to get over the excitement of their affection being mutual, they would both have more time for their typical friends’ circles and endeavors. Not as much time as they had to begin with, but Jehan had never begrudge others Bahorel’s company, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.

Especially given that he had found other ways to keep himself occupied.

Bringing his missive up onto the roof to read in the sunset and lantern-light had seemed like a better idea before he actually attempted it, but Jehan wasn’t one to give up easily. He squinted, turning the paper to catch stray beams of light and illuminate the words he needed.

_Dearest poet_ , the letter began, and Jehan couldn’t keep a chuckle from spilling out. Of course Bahorel’s mother would sound like him, even in writing.  
_It has been some time since I was asked about this story. I do not know how much you will take as truth and how much you will think fiction, but I can only tell you what I experienced. When I was much younger, there was a gentleman who called himself Zelus. I have since learned that the name should have been a clue as to his nature--_

Zelus.

The god of dedication.

Well, that would be a fitting god indeed for Bahorel.

Jehan moved his face closer to the paper, squinting so as to make out the sharp, block letters.

Bahorel may have been distracted by his lover right now, but there would undoubtedly be time later to discuss the other great mysteries of the universe besides love--such as the gods and where they have gone and what they are doing.

There was time, Jehan repeated firmly to himself, the realization a warm glow inside him after the terror of thinking Bahorel would be lost. There was time to talk to Tatsumo-san again tomorrow, and to search the archives, and to write a return missive to Bahorel’s mother to see if he could glean more about the mystery figure that was Bahorel’s father.

There was time for love and mystery and wonder, and as Jehan lay back to study the stars, he could ask nothing more of life than what he already had.

**Author's Note:**

> As a dedication for the poetic nature of Bahorel and Feuilly's getting together here is a playlist for The Only Way To Die (To Live) 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Q0ymcch3N9vu5b8jTYtDT


End file.
